Page 77 of Shattered Dreams

It’s not a surprise I wake up covered in sweat, the nightmare roiling around in my head. We found her, in my nightmare. We found her, and Zarah stared at me, her eyes blank. I tried to shake her awake, but there was nothing left of her mind. Someone dragged me away, but in my dream I didn’t know who, and as I clawed at the floor trying to find purchase to stay with her, she drifted away, little pieces into the air, disappearing right in front of me.

I stagger to the shower and stand under the hot spray, shuddering against the wall.

Scrubbing at my hair, I struggle for some modicum of composure. I try to convince myself that even if I lose her, if I can save her, that’s all that matters. Maybe she’ll hate me, maybe she’ll look down on me, a poor guy living on the wrong side of the tracks, maybe she won’t be the woman I want to love after she’s off the drugs, but if I can save her from Jerricka and what that woman wants to do to her, if I can spare her moreheartache, then the heartache I’ll live through in exchange will be worth it.

It has to be.

Zane calls, the sun barely rising. He knew I’d be awake. “He’s in the city.”

I don’t have to ask who he’s talking about. “Will he talk to us?”

“We won’t give him a choice. He’s staying at the St. Moritz.”

“One of yours?”

“No, but I know the manager and she’ll give us access.”

“When?”

“Right now. I’m downstairs.”

“You’re a cocky son of a bitch,” I say, heading toward the door.

“I have over twenty billion dollars behind my name. I’m allowed to be.”

He disconnects.

As much as she hates it, I leave Baby behind. She whines, but I can’t bring her along. The St. Moritz is one of the classiest hotels in the city—the rooms run into the thousands a night—and I don’t want to cause trouble.

I climb into Zane’s SUV, the sky tinged a milky pink. The stars are beginning to fade, bowing out to the impending sunrise. I like to run at this time of day, before the world wakes up. Try to chase my demons away. I have more than enough to fuel millions of miles.

So does Zane by the looks of it. It hasn’t been eight hours since I said goodbye to him and Stella, and I bet he got barely half that in sleep. Maybe he had nightmares like I did.

“What do you think we’re going to get out of him?”

Zane shrugs. “To be perfectly fucking honest, I didn’t consider him until you wrote his name down last night. But you’re right. You have to be. He has the money, he had theopportunity. The only thing missing is the why. Why would he drug my sister and those other girls? Was he one of Ash’s clients? Is he the job Zarah can’t remember? Did he kill Ingrid? What did Mallory do to him that he’d want to frame him for murder? Christ. Max.”

My brother’s name brings a lump to my throat and a huge rush of guilt. Sometimes I forget that in looking for Zarah, we could also be looking for my brother’s killer. There’s a possibility someone told Black to kill Max to keep him from finding out anything more about this case.

Over a year has gone by because I did nothing.

“How’s Stella?”

“Shaky. She and Willow are at the Crowne. Stella’s been trying to get out of her who she was fucking around with, but she won’t say—seals up tighter than a clam. Too bad she couldn’t keep her legs closed the same way.”

“All that means is the men she’d been sleeping with were married.”

“Or she knows they don’t want to be associated with her because she was married, too. Don’t rule anyone out,” Zane says. He crosses the Renegade, the river stretched out under us, the snowy banks hugging her silver curves.

The St. Moritz is located in the elegant, older part of downtown King’s Crossing, where ladies who lunch gossip over their tea and men who prize discretion over everything else spoil their lovers—if they can afford it. A valet shoots onto the sidewalk the moment Zane pulls up to the curb, and a doorman opens the gleaming glass door, smoothly letting us inside.

We stride through the gilt and subtle glitz of the lobby. Well, Zane strides. I shuffle. He fits in here, his suit pressed and his black wool coat hanging off his body just right. He commands everyone’s attention, from the sleepy concierge to the rich businessmen who are in town for meetings to the littledog cuddling in an older woman’s arms. Every single person turns, too terrified to utter a simple “Good morning.” They stare instead, wondering what he’s doing here, afraid he’s coming for them, disappointed he’s not. He’s notorious, infamous, and people fear him as much as they admire him.

He took down one of the largest crime families in the United States, all because he fell in love.

And marching across the marble, he sees none of it.

Gazes shift to me, the gutter rat as Jerricka called me chasing after him, not good enough to date his sister.

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